Strangers Passing By
by TaylorLeighWrites
Summary: It is one year since Sherlock Holmes jumped to his death and John Watson is still trying to cope with the loss. He finds life dull and grey until one day he's called to France to help solve a murder mystery. But John's not alone. There is another detective on the case. A mysterious Norwegian named Sigerson…


**Strangers Passing By **

I stared out of my window, watching the grey sheets of rain as they pounded against the glass. I still hadn't found the will to pick myself up and begin the long stretch of dull day ahead of me. I hardly realized that a new day had dawned. Had I stayed up the whole night? Had I just sat here staring out at the city? I didn't even remember.

I passed a hand over my eyes and groaned. My whole body ached from sitting in such a hunched position. I couldn't shake the dark clouds from around me. They hadn't left. Not since…

I knew I should get up. Get coffee. Anything to show myself that I was still here, still moving. Still breathing. I didn't want to.

I knew it was past the time that I should have been so broken about it. It had been over a year since my best friend jumped to his death from the top of St Bartholomew's hospital. A year since that phone call that ripped my insides apart like a steel knife.

I was not in 221B Baker Street. I hadn't been back there since the accident…I couldn't make myself. Seeing all of…our _previous _life. All the memories and conversations still hung like ghosts in the air, clouding up the place and I couldn't face it. But the ghosts hadn't left me be. They still haunted me, no matter how much distance I tried to put between us. It was still always the same. I wasn't myself anymore. Ever since I met Sherlock Holmes my life as a single entity had ceased to be. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. And now my second half was gone. Torn from me by what I was now beginning to see was the inevitable. Perhaps, despite the injustice and tragedy of it all, perhaps it was the only ending for my best friend. A man like that, a man so amazing, perhaps the world could not sustain him…

It was all I could tell myself to keep from completely breaking down some mornings. It was a fragile lie, and some days I was afraid it would shatter completely, but I still doggedly kept patching it up, keeping it standing.

Because that other damn lie was just too horrible and ugly to face.

I hadn't kept in contact with any of the people of Sherlock's previous life. Some of them I couldn't see because I knew my heart would break, like Molly or Mrs Hudson. And some of them I couldn't see because I knew my temper would snap. Lestrade and Mycroft and every other damn person at Scotland Yard. Every stupid person who would rather believe Moriarty's lie than the truth…

I drummed my fingers on the arm of my chair, hating that I was letting myself fall into these thoughts again. I had been so _good _lately! I hadn't thought on it, not besides those quiet whispers from my patients at work or those stares on the street. I hadn't thought about Sherlock Holmes, the life we had…the life we might have had…it was all gone now and so why the hell did I think of it still? I still thought of it because it still hurt. My chest felt hollow, empty, _aching _in a physical way that was almost enough to make me gasp. Sometimes it did. There were nights, late nights, nights I almost forgot thanks to the hour, where I would simply curl up, clutching at my chest, unable to stop the wracking sobs or the pain.

I tried not to dwell on those nights. They were like a phantom. Not real. Not me.

I swallowed, throat dry.

'Right, well, time to get up…'

I didn't move.

Not until my phone rang.

I jerked, as if out of a sleep—perhaps I had been sleeping—and tossed about for a moment, disoriented by the noise. Finally I realized what I was hearing and I stuffed my hand into my dressing gown and fished out my mobile. I scowled at the number. It wasn't one I recognize.

I glance across at me at the open space. To the empty couch.

And _he's _sitting there. Watching me. _Well, aren't you going to answer it?_

'I don't…' What, exactly? _Want _to? No, I didn't. I wanted to just sit here in my thoughts, watching the rain.

_Unknown number, calling at this hour, must be urgent, must be… _His eyes gleamed with hunger. _A _case_! _

I pressed my lips together in a flat line. 'No,' I said out loud, ignoring my own imagination. 'Nope. That was _your _life and I've left that life…I've left that life behind me.' It took me a second to get the words out. I had to clear my throat.

The phone was still ringing.

He leant back on the sofa, pressing his hands to his lips, a gentle, knowing smile played at them. _You're going to answer it._

'No I'm _not!_'

He was still smiling. His eyes drifted down to the phone.

With a swear I answered it. 'H—hello?'

'Is this Dr John Watson?'

His eyebrows went up. I ignored him and cleared my throat. The voice sounded French. 'Yes. May I ask who's calling?'

'Ah, _bon! _I am sorry to call at such an early hour, Dr Watson, but it is rather urgent.'

I resisted a groan. 'Right, well, you know, I don't actually do house calls.' I cast about for my shoes. I wasn't dressed. He was watching me, a keen shine coming to his eyes. 'What seems to be the trouble?'

'Oh, no, Dr Watson, you misunderstand me. We need your expertise in another matter. I'm afraid there has been a…murder. My name is Claude Dubois, I own an estate an hour outside of Paris. Something happened here several nights ago. A murder. I am afraid it does not put me in a very good light. Scotland Yard is here and are tearing up the place because of the murder, the man was English, you see, and I need someone else to come down and help clear my name.'

I couldn't help but groan now. Across the room, now leaning forward, he was staring in delight upon hearing the words. I shot him a glower.

My heart had clenched up in my chest at Dubois's words. I swallowed. 'You do…realize, Mr Dubois that…Sherlock Holmes…' I stared out the window, fighting to keep my voice steady. 'He's no longer…He died over a year ago.'

'_Oui, _I am aware of that terrible business, Dr Watson, just dreadful, but you…your reputation is still, how shall I say, _untainted. _There were not many others I could ask, and none could come on such short notice. Without Sherlock Holmes, you are one of the only people who comes to mind.And I desperately need your help. Will you come?'

I bit my bottom lip in frustration. I wanted to say no. I wanted to say that I buried that life when I buried Sherlock Holmes.

He stared at me, pale blue eyes wide, eager. I knew the look well. _It's been so long since we've had a case, John. Please…_

I sighed and rest my head back against the back of my chair, pulling the mobile briefly away from my mouth. 'I can't just get up and leave everything over this! I've got a job—'

He was still staring. _Since when did that stop you before? _

I pulled the phone back up.

'_Monsieur?' _

I took a deep breath. 'Can you tell me any more about the case?'

'I am afraid not over the phone. I will tell it to you all once you arrive.'

He jumped up from the sofa and span about the room, eyes wild. _Yes! Another case! Brilliant! Might be a bit mundane but it's certainly better than sitting around here! Come on, Watson! Pack your bags! _And he was gone from the room.

I shook my head ruefully. Dubois gave me the address. I wrote it down. And then I sat back and stared out at the rain again, wondering just what I've gotten myself in to.

I sat on the train, nerves fluttering in my stomach, turning me ill. It was dark, thanks to us travelling through the Chunnel. The darkness make me feel more trapped. Across from me he sat, legs tucked up under him, hands pressed to his lips in thought. He hadn't spoken. So like him at the start of a case. Perhaps he was quiet because he didn't know what to say. Because _I didn't _know what to say.

My heart thudded in my chest, fuelled on by my nerves. What the _hell _am I doing? Travelling to France to help investigate a murder case? I was not a detective. I was the sidekick. Taking on this case…would I just be bringing shame to Sherlock's name?

_Don't be ridiculous, _he finally spoke up from across from me. _It's not like my name can be any further tainted._ His eyes shone in amusement.

I huffed my breath. 'Thanks for the confidence.'

He waved a long hand._ Just do what I would. You'll do fine._

I shook my head and turned my gaze out of the window. Into the darkness.

I arrived at the estate in a cab and I was immediately impressed. I leant heavily on my cane as I took it all in. The limp came back not long after Sherlock left. So did the shaking.

Dubois must be a rich man, indeed, to live in such a place. The estate itself was a tall, three storey building of red brick, covered in ivy. The grounds were well manicured; roses, hedges and fountains dotted the grass here and there in an artful way.

I paid the cabbie and then turned to trudge up the long drive. I saw three cars parked to the side. I felt self-conscious when I realized they're police. They were all busy talking with each other. Then one man looked up. He was immediately familiar. I tried to walk faster but still managed to catch his attention.

'John? John Watson? Is that you?'

I stopped in my tracks reluctantly and turn to face the line of cars. Greg Lestrade was hurrying my way. I had to fight down a wave of bitterness as it hit me hard seeing him. I did my best to smile, but I had a feeling it fell flat. This man…I hated to blame him for what happened. I knew it wasn't his fault. It was Moriarty's. But…he had turned. He had lost faith. In Sherlock's final hour of need Lestrade had turned on him. I swallowed my anger and bitterness towards him like a giant pill: painfully and unpleasantly.

He stopped before me and offered what I took as a somewhat sheepish smile. The space between us was agonizingly awkward.

'My god, how are you? I haven't seen you since…'

He meant the fall. He meant the suicide. The funeral. Sherlock would have wanted him there. I still wasn't sure I did.

'Well,' I said as steadily as I can, 'there hasn't been any real need to see me, has there?'

Lestrade avoided my eyes. 'But you're here,' he smiled, 'so you're taking over the…business, then?'

I shook my head hurriedly. 'No…I just…I was asked so I decided to come.' I glanced back up to the big house. 'I'm not entirely sure _why _I'm here, actually.'

Lestrade nodded. 'Murder. A young English man named Mark Harrison was found with a hole blown through his head on this man Dubois's estate. Must have been on his bike when it happened. He was pinned under it.'

I frowned. 'Was he staying here?'

Lestrade shook his head. 'At the house across the field. Apparently comes here every holiday he can.'

I nodded. 'Did he know Dubois at all?'

Lestrade sighed. 'Not until this trip, or so I'm told. From what I've heard, Dubois is a bit of a dog person. Likes to show them, you know. Somehow his prize spaniel got out a few days ago and Harrison killed it with his car.' Lestrade laughed in disbelief. 'Didn't go over too well, as you can imagine. From what neighbours have said there was quite a row over it and Dubois swore he'd make Harrison pay for it.'

'And you think Dubois killed him?'

Lestrade laughed again. 'The evidence is starting to point that way.'

I sighed. 'Fantastic. And I suppose he must want me to help clear his name.'

Lestrade nodded. 'You're not the only private detective here, did you know that? This man, Dubois, must be pretty paranoid we're going to find him guilty.'

I jerked in surprise. I was a bit hurt by that. 'Dubois hired another detective? No, I didn't know. Who is it?'

Lestrade glanced across the vast yard. 'Some Norwegian bloke named Sigerson. Ever heard of him?'

I had, in fact. He had just recently risen to fame solving crimes around Europe. I followed his exploits out of a mild interest. He seemed a rather strange man, never allowed himself to be photographed, never took cases in Britain…He had a style similar to Sherlock's. I thought him to be nothing but a flimsy, pompous copy of the original. I didn't much care for him. But I was surprised he was here.

'Mmm,' I said flatly, 'yes, I've heard of him. I'm surprised he's here for a small case like this. Is there something else I don't know?'

Lestrade's eyes grew dark. 'This whole village is weird, John. Everyone's hiding something. Just be careful and…stay out of our way, if you can.'

I nodded. 'Of course.'

Lestrade didn't seem to be able to find anything else to say. He heaved a sigh. 'Well, I am sure we will be seeing more of each other. Good luck.' And with that, he spun on his heel and marched back to the line of cars.

I sighed heavily and struck off for the house, trying to work up any motivation for the problems ahead of me.

When I entered the house, I was immediately greeted by voices. I moved forward cautiously towards the drawing room. I was amazed by the size of the house. Dubois is clearly well-off. When I stepped into the room, I saw immediately that I wasn't alone. The man I assume was Dubois was leaning up against a large ornate desk, and standing across from him, glowering sharply, was another man. Must be Sigerson, I decided.

'Ah, Dr Watson!' Dubois crowed as I entered. 'So you found your way here, good!'

I smiled. 'Yes. Nice place…' I cast my gaze around appreciatively.

Dubois nodded. He was a rather large man. 'Yes…been in the family for years…Ah! May I introduce you to Mr Benedict Sigerson! He arrived just before you did. I didn't think he was coming. Should make your work a bit easier, having someone to work with.' He smiles broadly.

I turned to face the other man and was immediately surprised. The man was staring at me, wide-eyed, with an almost shocked expression. He seemed completely frozen. Awkwardly, I offered him a smile and held out my hand. 'Hello, pleasure to meet you. I've heard a lot about you.'

Sigerson shook himself slightly and then offered a winning smile that I found…oddly familiar. The man was tall, yet hunched. He was blond, with long hair tied back, facial hair and rounded glasses that shielded bright green eyes. His face was long and gaunt, set in jagged lines hidden behind a bushy beard. I had never seen the man before and yet…I found myself strangely bothered by him. There was some nagging…sense about him I couldn't put my finger on. I could almost swear I _knew _this man. Which was, of course, completely impossible.

'Dr Watson, this is quite a surprise. Pleasure to meet you. I read all your blogs.' He had a strong Norwegian accent. He took my hand and gave it a shake. His grip was strong and our eyes locked again. Something about the corners of them, the way they pulled down, almost sadly…

'Thank you,' I cleared my throat, releasing his hand.

Sigerson spun away from me to stare back at Dubois with his hawkish eyes. 'I will have to be allowed full access to the grounds and house. Any information—'

Dubois nodded. 'Yes, of course. Both of you.'

'Also,' Sigerson said slowly, 'I will wish to work alone.' He didn't look my direction, but I immediately know he's referring to me.

Dubois looked surprised. 'Oh, I suppose I should have known. Well, of course! It could be a bit of a challenge between you two, first to clear my name wins. I'll even throw in a bonus!'

Sigerson's green eyes narrowed. 'First to discover the truth, Claude. If by doing so I clear your name, then yes.'

Dubois blinked. 'Ah. Yes. Well, off you go, then, if you haven't any more questions?'

Sigerson looked Dubois up and down. 'None at the moment,' he turned to me briefly. 'Dr Watson, best of luck.' He gave a slight bow and then swept from the room, pulling out a mobile in the process, engrossed with whatever was on the screen.

I sighed hollowly and turned back to Dubois with the most enthusiastic look I could muster. I was already depressed by the whole idea of this case. Why the hell had I decided to come? I already knew I was useless compared to a man like Sigerson. What had I thought it would be, _fun? _I was making a fool of myself and I hadn't yet started.

Dubois smiled thinly. 'I apologize, I hadn't expected you both to arrive, but I am grateful. I will make sure you have everything you need.'

I turned back to the way Sigerson had strode off and then glanced back to Dubois. 'Right, um, do you mind just filling me in a bit? I'm still completely in the dark on what's happened here.'

Dubois sighed and sat back heavily. 'Bad bit of business, I'm afraid. And, unfortunately, it doesn't look too good for me.'

I nodded but didn't let on to what Lestrade told me. One thing I'd learnt from Sherlock: never let them know what you know.

'This man, young man, Mark Harrison, he's a usual here every holiday. He was murdered two days ago.' Dubois stared out the window. 'I'm a dog breeder and shower, Monsieur Watson, and a champion one at that.'

I glanced up at the walls, where several trophies confirmed this. I nodded. 'Okay. And what happened between you and Harrison.'

Dubois sighed. 'Nothing! That is what you have to prove!'

I held up a hand. 'Okay, okay, just…tell me the facts.'

Dubois glanced up to the trophies. 'One day, my beautiful, prize winning spaniel, Holly, got out of the house. She ran directly into Harrison's path as he was driving and he killed her instantly.'

'Did you see it happen?'

'No, my niece did, however.'

'But you were there soon after?'

'Yes, she came and got me. She is here living with me for the summer. I am sure you will understand me when I say I lost my temper. I may have said things that I didn't want to say, but I swear to you I didn't mean to act on any of them.'

I kept my face blank. 'What…exactly did you say?'

Dubois shook his head. 'I told him that I'd make sure he'd pay for what he'd done—but I meant him no physical harm! I was thinking more…financial.'

I mentally winced. 'Did anyone see this happen?'

Dubois avoided my eyes. 'It happened in the village, so unfortunately yes. I cannot give you any real names.'

I wracked my brain for any other information Sherlock would have wanted. 'Anyone in the village Harrison was close with? Anyone he'd upset? Did you know of any people he kept in contact with?'

Dubois shook his head. 'Cannot help you there, I'm afraid. He went riding his bike every morning rather early, always headed down towards the pond, but beyond that, I didn't see him much.'

'So he never visited you? Nothing like that?'

Dubois laughed shortly. 'No. Nothing like that. He and I were in…different circles. I'd never met him till the accident.'

I couldn't think of anything else. 'Alright then, thanks. I'll come back to you when I have something.'

Dubois bobbed his head and gave me a slight bow. 'Thank you, Mousier! I will look forward to what you find with great interest.'

I smiled tightly and left the room, mind whirling.

I wasn't quite sure where to begin. Sherlock always had a plan, he always knew exactly where he wanted to start investigating, whether it be checking the flowerbeds or the carpet or interrogating a witness. I, however, was simply the loyal follower and had always been a bit baffled by Sherlock's random methods and he'd never really shared his reasoning behind them with me. Now I was expected to mirror his ways and I felt absolutely lost. Where the hell did I begin?

I stumbled down the front stairs of the house as someone came out behind me. It was Sigerson.

'It's rained last week,' he said as he brushed past me, head tilted up to the sky. I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or himself.

'Sorry?' I wobbled from loss of balance.

He didn't turn back round. I clenched my teeth together in frustration. He was still in the house when I was talking with Dubois? Funny, I'd thought he'd left. I watched as the Norwegian detective went striding round the other side of the house on a mission of his own.

It rained last week…Sherlock was always going on about rain. Rain made a good mould for prints. But Dubois said that Harrison had never been on the property…I hurried down the steps, mind racing. I found myself scanning the grass without quite knowing why. I didn't even know what I was looking for. Dubois said Harrison had never been to his house, but I wasn't sure if I should take him at his word. And what was Sigerson doing inside? He seemed quite content to stay on the grounds, so what had he figured out that I was missing?

I stopped for a moment, thinking, finding myself gazing the direction Sigerson had gone. I needed more information on Mark Harrison, and there was only one person I could think of to help.

Luckily for me, Lestrade hadn't moved far from where I'd left him. He looked up as I approach and even from the distance I was at I could see him bracing himself. He was ready for the demands that Sherlock so often asked of him. I wasn't Sherlock, but I had questions I needed answered and I was going to get them.

I pulled Lestrade aside when I reached him. 'Do you have the information on Mark Harrison's body? His shoe size, height, all of that?'

Lestrade nodded. 'Yeah, but—'

'Brilliant, can I see it?'

Lestrade looked like he wanted to protest, but he finally sighed. 'Alright, fine. Since I know you. I suppose it's not exactly confidential anyway…'

He led me back to his car and pulled out a file of papers. I took them from him and scanned them as quickly as I could take in the information. I was slower than Sherlock, I knew, but I did the best I could. I wrote down his general information because I knew I wouldn't be able to remember it.

'So,' Lestrade said as I read, 'How's it going?'

I pressed my lips into a flat line, not exactly wanting to chat as I was trying to read. 'Just started. Hard to say.'

Lestrade shrugged. 'Yeah, but I mean, _you_…' He stopped himself and I was glad he did. I was not about to start small talking about my emotional state these days.

Finally, I finished. 'Thanks. I'm sure I'll be seeing you around.'

Lestrade nodded. 'So, what do you think of that Norwegian bloke?'

I glanced back towards the house. 'Sigerson? Don't know. Haven't really met him.'

Lestrade pulls a face. 'Yeah, but he's supposed to be a genius with this sort of thing.'

I gave him a hard look. 'And you believe him?'

Lestrade snapped his mouth shut hard. He avoided my eyes. 'Best of luck, John. I'll be around if you need me.'

I nodded and turned away, marching back up the long driveway. When I reached the spot I had been minutes before, I directed my attention across the field to the other house, the one where Harrison had been staying. I squared my shoulders and, seeing no other real option, started off along the path towards the far house. I turned back to Dubois's house, when I'm half-way through the field, and saw a small dark shape flop down into the grass, crawling on hands and knees. I shook my head. Sigerson hard at work. Again, I felt a slight flutter in my stomach. What had he noticed that I had not?

Grumbling, I continued my march across the field towards the other house. There were more police there, which was understandable. Those were French. I frowned as I turned round. I don't even know where the murder happened…

Halfway through the field I came across the bright white tape warning me away. I stopped at it. An office looked up at me with a furrowed brow. He said something in French.

'I'm sorry, I don't speak French.' I stepped back, feeling terribly awkward.

'He says this area is off-limits,' said a voice behind me.

I jumped and turned to see Sigerson striding up. He gave me an amused look and then barked something in French to the officer. I watched, awed, as Sigerson pushed past me and ducked under the tape without a thought. I was confounded by his disregard for the barriers. It was so very…No. I stopped myself there.

I watched the Norwegian for a moment, jealousy bubbling up inside of me. He suddenly spun on his heel.. 'Dr Watson?' he says suddenly.

I blinked in surprise. I hadn't expected him to say my name.

'What?'

He gave me a sharp glance. 'Do you not want to look around?'

I spluttered. 'Oh, well, I…I didn't realize I was able to.' I flushed.

Sigerson scowled and then turned round to the officer. The two spoke together in hushed tones of rambling French. Once or twice Sigerson gestured back to me with a sweeping hand. I leant on my cane, nerves tight as a spring.

They seemed to come to some sort of agreement. I heard the officer say _'Oui,'_ and then speak into his radio. Sigerson, in turn, marched back over to me.

'What was all that about?' I asked, feeling incredibly self-conscious.

He gave me a serious look. 'If we are to both investigate this case, Doctor, then it is only fair that we have the same privileges. I have assured the inspector that you will act with the utmost profession and respect and will in no way interfere with their work.'

I was, quite honestly gobsmacked. I nodded my head up and down rapidly. 'Of course!' I didn't know if I should thank him, or just go on with my work and pretend that this was normal. Sigerson lifted the white tape for me to step under. Obediently, I did.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Just who was this man, anyway?

Sigerson was sweeping his head left and right, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. Once or twice he dropped down to a squat. I stood back, giving him room.

I lowered my own eyes to the ground. There were boot prints everywhere, thanks to the officers. I could hear Sigerson grumbling about that from where he was standing at the moment. Among all the human prints, I noticed something else. The paw prints of a dog. I dropped down to a squat to get a better look at them.

They were a couple days' old, for the police officer's prints cover most of them. I shook my head. It was most likely nothing. So a dog walked through the scene? So what? Dogs were everywhere. And they walked wherever they damn well pleased.

But, hang on, buried by other prints and trampled grass, that was another set of prints, wasn't it? Different pattern than our officer's, and it followed the dog's closely, almost side by side in some cases. Now, that wasn't coincidence, was it?

Slowly I stood and tracked the ground with my eyes, stepping as carefully as possible along the trodden ground, trying to follow the trail. I made it to the centre of the taped off circle, but it was such a trampled mess I could not discern a thing. There were too many prints! There were the officer's, the dog's, the prints beside the dog's…I thought I saw yet two or three more pairs but I couldn't make them out. And ah! there is the bike trail. I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the faint prints. They would be gone soon and I couldn't afford to waste them.

With a silent curse to the people in charge of messing up such a valuable set of clues, I straighten and passed a hand over my eyes. The sun was growing higher and I felt it against the back of my neck. As I opened my eyes, I was looking directly at Sigerson.

Our eyes meet. He was staring at me with a wide-eyed, keen expression I couldn't name. I flushed. He stood swiftly, eyes darting back to the ground. I almost thought I saw a smile cross his lips. He spun around in a tight circle and then, without a word, ducked under the tape and went loping off down the hill towards Harrison's house. The French officer looked at me expectantly, as if I was supposed to go with Sigerson.

With a tight smile, I ducked under the tape and picked a direction of my own: the field leading towards the road that wound into the village. It was the way the faint bike trail ran pressed into the grass, and it only came this far, so it had to have started somewhere.

The tall grass whipped round my legs. As I walked, I looked about my surroundings. The field that I was walking through was circled by a road, on one side, to my left, was Dubois's house, on the other side is Harrison's. Behind me is a clump of trees and before me is the village.

Running along the road, head dipped towards the ground, coming from Harrison's house and headed towards the village, was Sigerson. I paused for a moment and watched him. He stopped directly ahead of me, still on the road, span in a circle and then went trotting along the road again, now winding towards Dubois's house. What the hell was he up to? I shook my head. It didn't matter. We've each got our own methods. I couldn't worry about it.

I was about twenty feet from the road when things again became interesting. The grass, coming from the road leading into the village, just off to my left—not the direction of the faint bike trail—was pressed down, as if someone had been tromping around there somewhat recently. I deviated from my following of the tyre trail and, without really knowing why, went to investigate. Yes, someone had walked down from the road, come to stand about twenty feet away, and then stopped. Why?

I turned round, scanning the ground. Perhaps I'd missed something. Grass, trash, mud…nothing of any interest to me. I turned back to the bike path. And there it is.

'Hello, what's this?' I hadn't caught it at first, but I saw it now, lying in the weeds. A long strap of cloth. I pulled it up, trying to disentangle it from plant life in the process. When I finally had it free, I couldn't help but raise my eyebrows in surprise. It was a dog's lead. Something dark and crusty covered it. Mud? I ran my fingers over it and it came away in flakes across my fingers. Blood. Dried blood.

I frowned. The lead looked to be in rough shape. Why had someone chucked it here? My scowl deepened. The narrow road into the village wasn't that far from where I was now. If someone had balled it up tightly, as it looked now, it could probably have been thrown…

But _why?_

I dropped down on my hands and knees and peered through the tall grass and swept my gaze over the stalks of plant life. I wasn't really sure what I was hoping to see. Footprints? Something dropped? I worked my way back towards the road, sweeping my gaze this way and that. Finally, I noticed what I'd been hoping I'd find. Coming from the road, near the entrance to the village, was a footprint. It didn't come far and it seemed to pause after several paces from the road. I stopped next to it and stared back out across the field. Someone had marched out here and then stopped. Why? To take a piss? I doubted it. I judged the throw. Yes. Someone could definitely throw the dog's lead from this distance and have it land where it did.

I paused for a moment, knee-deep in grass, thinking it over. It still didn't make much sense, and I had no way of knowing if it was even important! So I'd found a bit of trash out in the field…

_Don't ignore the unusual. _

I nodded to myself and wadded up the lead as gingerly as I could before stuffing it into my pocket. Then I swung round and hiked back up to the road. It was only when I reached the pavement did I realize I was being watched by a young and attractive woman.

I smiled a tight greeting, wondering how long she'd been watching me. 'Good afternoon,' I said.

She gave an almost indifferent shrug. 'Alright.' Then her head tilted to the side. 'What were you doin' down there?'

I smiled, thinking of how me running through the grass must have looked from her vantage point. 'Most have looked a bit mental, I'd imagine.'

'Mmm,' she said. 'You working with that Poirot bloke?'

'What?' I'm briefly confused. 'Oh, you mean Sigerson.' I chuckled. 'Yes, I guess he is a bit like Poirot, isn't he?' A mental image of David Suchet flashed through my mind and I had to hide my grin when I thought of the tall Norwegian. Total opposites, and yet, it worked. I did my best to turn my amusement into genuine friendliness. 'So all of this must have really caused a stir here, I'd imagine?'

'Oh yeah,' the girl drawled.

I felt my spine relax slightly. She seemed willing to talk. 'Sorry, John Watson is the name.' I held out my hand and she shook it.

'Jenny Dubois, pleasure.'

I blinked. 'Dubois! Any chance related to…'

She nodded her head. 'Yeah, he's my uncle.' She rolled her eyes a bit dramatically.

I smiled. 'That must be…nice.'

She scowled. 'How so?'

I cleared my throat. 'Well, you know, rich man like Dubois as your uncle…'

She snorted with derisive laughter. 'Yeah. That would be the day.'

I wondered just how far I could push this. 'You two don't get on?'

She had a nasty smirk twisting up her face. I knew it. She was going to talk. 'We might. If it wasn't for that damn dog of his!'

I blinked. 'The dog. The one that died?'

She again, barked with hysterical laughter. 'Yes! Oh, that was bloody brilliant. He was pouring all of his fortune into that dog. I wasn't going to see a penny of it. Well, I think it's a hilarious end to his obsession.' She spun and pointed behind her. 'Damn thing died right over there. I saw the whole thing. Laughed so bloody hard. The look on Mark's face!'

'Did you…know him, by chance? Mark Harrison?'

She shrugged her slight shoulders. I couldn't help but take her in. She was a good-looking woman. Thin, brunette, curvy. I mentally shook my head to get myself back to the task at hand. 'Yeah, I knew him. Met him in a pub. We just fooled around a bit. Nothing serious.'

'What did you think of him?'

She pulled out a fag and lit up. 'He was alright. My uncle hated him and the fact we were together. I think that's why I kept him round as long as I did. Harrison was alright, but driving my uncle mental was more fun.' She grinned around her cigarette.

I smiled.

'Well,' her eyes drifted over me, 'I'm off to work.'

'Ah, where do you work?'

She laughed again. 'The pub. Place I met Harrison. You hungry?'

I nodded and walked with her. 'So, Harrison frequent the pub often? Did he have many friends here?'

She puffed out a cloud of smoke. 'A few. Not the best sort, if you know what I mean. Played a lot of cards. He wasn't the smartest of blokes, I'll say that much.'

I nodded, storing the information away. We walked the rest of the way into town in relative silence. She pointed out a few things here and there, but my mind was elsewhere.

The pub was a good break from my loneliness and stress. I got some good French food in me and Jenny discreetly pointed out Harrison's group. I managed to get acquainted with them. She was right. They weren't really the best bunch I'd met. I wasn't as good at it as Sherlock, but I'd learned from observing and I could act. It didn't talk long for them to accept me into a friendly game of cards. I lost money, but as I left the pub, just as the light was fading, near nine-thirty, I'd learnt one thing: they did _not _like Mark Harrison. The crude jokes they cracked about his death were enough of a clue to tell me that.

It was growing late as I trudged back to Dubois's place. My eyelids were heavy. I was, frankly, exhausted. All I wanted was sleep. And worst of all, I felt defeated. A whole day of running round this place and I felt no closer to solving a damn thing. Dubois had wanted me to stay at his giant home of all places. He said he didn't want me paying for a room in town. I didn't protest. My income of late hadn't exactly been as good as it had been in the past.

I hobbled up the drive, cane punching small holes into the gravel. My eyes drifted towards the ground. A tyre mark ran by, more than one, all over each other in the mud off to the side. All the same. Most, quite old. I stopped and dropped down to observe them. It was the same mark as the one in the field. Mark Harrison's bike? It looked as if he'd ridden this way, and often.

One tyre line deviated from the rest, took a sharp turn right, but was lost in the many tracks of vehicles that travelled this road. I walked across the road, scanning wildly. I hardly realized I was at the side of Dubois's house now, headed round towards the back. I stopped, irritated. There was nothing. Nothing at all. The grass was too springing. No marks.

I leant on my cane for a moment and shut my eyes in frustration. I was overtired and getting nowhere. I felt overwhelmed and most of all, useless. I wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Why was I pretending to be? I couldn't solve this…

_Sherlock, I need you…_

The thought brought a pang of pain to my heart.

_I can't do this without you. _

My pocket gave a buzz that almost made me jump in the stillness. I pulled out my phone and stared at the text I'd just received. It was from a blocked number. I scowled in confusion but opened the message.

YOU'RE MISSING SOMETHING OBVIOUS JOHN

I stared at the phone, hardly aware that my mouth had fallen open. It was like a punch to the gut. Almost immediately, another text arrived.

CHECK THE GRASS

S

My heart gave a lurch in my chest. I reread the text over and over till the words blurred. It couldn't be…It simply couldn't be. _S?_ Who the hell was S? I could think of only one person who would address me in such a way. But that…that is impossible. He'd been dead for over a year. I swallowed, almost praying for another text to arrive to confirm the sender's identity. My heart thudded in my ears, blocking out the quiet noise of the village.

_You're missing something obvious, John. _I heard it in his voice. It's automatically his voice. It always was.

'Sherlock?' I said out loud, turning round on the spot, trying to, and knowing it rather stupid, see who had sent the text to me.

Only silence met my words. A raven somewhere cawed.

What the hell was going on? Was this some kind of sick prank, put on by Dubois? Why put me here to investigate something, and then immediately into the investigation…I get a text from what…beyond the grave?

For a moment I fought with myself and my emotions. Check the grass…I sighed and, deciding that there was nothing else for it, I looked down to my shoes.

It was growing dark so I fished into my pocket and pulled out a small torch. I flicked it on and, dropping my cane, crouched down and cast my eyes and light about. Nothing, nothing…and then—there! A paw print. Perhaps…was that a smaller shoe? I continued to search. The grass wasn't offering much. And then I spotted something else. A hole bored into the ground from…a bike rest? It certainly looked that way. Perhaps those two indentions in the ground were tyres…

So, he'd swerved off the road, stopped here…why?

Had Dubois known? If this was indeed Mark Harrison…Dubois had stated Mark had never been to the house, yet these tracks proved different.

Unfortunately, I couldn't see much else.

Feeling confused, I trudged back to the house, ready for nothing but a warm shower and rest.

I lay in bed that night, mind racing. He was pacing the room frantically, back and forth, like my mind.

'It makes no sense, Sherlock!' I complained to the darkness.

He briefly pulled up. _'What doesn't?'_

I threw up my hands. 'The case!'

'_Oh,' _he waved a hand, _'you're thinking about this too hard, John. Think about motives. What you've seen, what you've heard. You've been given the clues you need.'_

I glowered. 'Oh, and I suppose _you've _figured it out, then?'

He gripped the edge of the bed and leaned over to face me. _'I'm only as smart as you are, John. It's locked away in your head. All you have to do is open your mind and see it for yourself.'_

I rubbed my face. 'I think it's all mental.'

He grinned and started pacing again. _'Get some rest, John. Often, I have found, the answers come to me when my mind is quiet and I am at the threshold of sleep…'_

I obeyed him then, and fell into a strange world of dogs and girls and bikes and blood, all racing round a track in my mind, with the green eyes of the Norwegian watching them go.

When I left the house the next morning I almost collided directly into Lestrade.

'John Watson! My, you're up early!'

I straightened. 'Same goes for you. Here to see Dubois?'

Lestrade rubbed the back of his head. 'Yeah,' he pulled a face. 'It's not looking good for him.'

I blinked. 'Why? Have you found something else?'

Lestrade nodded. 'I'm afraid so. The bullet lodged in Harrison's brain. Looks like it matches with Dubois's gun.'

I swore. 'I didn't know he had one.'

'Afraid so. Old family heirloom, antique. Pretty easy to identify.'

I shook my head, irritated. 'Damn.'

Lestrade shrugged. 'Well, there's still hope for you, I suppose. How are you and that Sigerson bloke getting on? Finding any amazing clues?'

'I don't know how Sigerson is doing,' I answered frostily. 'But I'm not having the best of luck, I'm afraid.'

Lestrade huffed his breath sending up a little cloud in the cold. 'Well maybe you two should team up, I hear he's quite brilliant. Could be just like old times, the two of you. One never knows, I mean this is a case that is fit for someone like Sher—'

'Well, he's not Sherlock Holmes, is he?' I snapped at Lestrade, taking him aback. 'He's just another pathetic poser trying to fill his shoes and steal some time in the lime light. He's _not _Sherlock and he'll never be! No one will. He's nothing but a fraud and I won't fall for it.'

I froze as at that moment, Sigerson stepped out from the doorway and blinked against the light. I felt my cheeks colour with embarrassment. It was too much to hope he didn't hear what I'd just said. I internally debated with myself about apologizing for my words or just leaving it. I decided to just let it be.

He pulled on his black gloves and turned to me. 'Morning, Dr Watson. I trust last night you were able to piece together some of these little problems in your mind?'

I swallowed and avoided his green-eyed gaze. 'A bit of it.'

He studied me for a moment. He was dressed for the weather. Thick coat and bobcap pulled down over his straight blond hair. He looked like an explorer. 'Would you do me the honour of accompanying me today?'

I was shocked. 'What?'

I heard Lestrade laugh behind me.

Sigerson gave me a blank look. 'If you'd prefer to be on your own I understand—'

I shook my head. I felt nervous about the idea, but at the same time, drawn towards it. 'I'd be happy to come with you, if I won't slow you down.'

He glanced to my cane and a small smile pulled at those familiar lips. 'I think we'll manage.' And then he started off at a quick lope away from the house.

I cast Lestrade a confused look. He laughed again.

'Well, don't look at me!'

I rolled my eyes and hurried after Sigerson. When we reached the road he turned and started walking back towards the village. He was quiet for several long minutes.

When we were out of earshot he finally spoke. 'So, Dr Watson, tell me what you know.'

I barked with laughter. 'What?'

He spun round to face me. 'What have you gathered so far from this case?'

I spluttered. I felt embarrassed, and I didn't know what to say. Or, for that matter, if I should say anything. 'Well, I've come across a few things but…but they don't make sense.'

And then it hit me.

Sigerson was the one who text me last night. I looked up at him.

'You texted me.'

'What?'

'You. You text me about the grass. About the bike that was resting near the house.'

He blinked. And then he smiled. 'Ah! So you did spot that! Good work, Dr Watson! Anything else?'

I was about to tell him, but then a thought hit me: WHY? Why the hell should I tell him anything? Why did he even care?

'Look, why are you helping me?' I asked, feeling a bit peeved.

Sigerson languidly gazed over at me. 'You were looking a little lost, Dr Watson. I just wanted to…push you in the right direction.'

I was still puzzled. 'But _why? _You said you wanted to work separately, the bonus—'

'Bah!' Sigerson spat the word. 'I do not do it for the money! Solving crimes is my life, it is all that matters! Bringing those to justice who would otherwise escape.' His green eyes narrowed.

I smiled grimly. 'Funny. That's exactly what my best friend used to think.'

He gave me a warm smile. 'I owe a good deal to Mr Sherlock Holmes. He inspired me to become a detective.'

I blinked. 'Really?'

Sigerson held up his mobile. I read what the screen said.

'The Science of Deduction…Sherlock's site!'

Sigerson gave me another one of those damned familiar grins of his. 'It has been most helpful to me. It is quite genius...even if he was a fraud—'

'No,' I shook my head stubbornly. 'No. Sherlock Holmes did not fake his cases. He was framed by an evil man named Moriarty. Whatever you've read about him, it's all a lie.'

Sigerson seemed surprised. 'You still believe he was what he claimed?'

'Always.' I have to look away then, else Sigerson see the emotion that wracked across my face. 'I will always believe in Sherlock Holmes.'

'You are a devoted friend, Dr Watson. Sherlock Holmes was lucky to have you.'

I sighed heavily. 'For all the good it did him.'

Sigerson glanced away for a moment. There is silence between us, but just for a tick.

'So, you didn't tell me what else you saw.'

I wracked my brain, thinking. 'There were some other tracks near the side entrance. They looked familiar.'

'You'd seen them before?'

I nodded. 'I think so. A smaller person's print, and those of a dog. I can't be sure,' I dug out my mobile, 'but I think they're the same of those at the crime scene where Harrison was killed on his bike.'

'Good,' he purred. 'No one else noticed that and they've been tromping round here for days. Sometimes people have a way of missing what's right in front of them.'

I glanced up to him. I'm not entirely sure, but I could have sworn he was referring to me.

He seemed to brood for a moment, and then, 'Anything strange about the bike?'

I stopped, confused. 'Um?'

Sigerson sighed. 'Harrison always followed a direct route, same day after day. So why did he end dead in a place where it was not easy riding, far from his normal path?'

I pulled a face. 'He had something to do. Or someone to meet?'

'Good. Also, the tyre tracks.'

I shook my head. 'You've lost me.'

Sigerson swept an extended hand across the ground in a broad gesture. 'The tracks arriving and leaving the house are deeper than those that circle this entire village in line after line. You missed, this, I see. What does that tell you?'

I bit my lip. 'That when he came to the house he was more weighed down than when he arrived. And…whatever it was he took away with him.'

Sigerson beamed. 'Excellent, Dr Watson! Perhaps you should take up detective work yourself.'

I rolled my eyes. 'I'd hardly be good at it. And please, call me John.'

'John,' Sigerson said to himself, so quietly I almost didn't hear it. He gazed down the narrow street for a long moment, and then started off at a brisk walk.

I hurried to keep up, digging into my coat pocket in the process. 'I found this as well,' I pulled out the bloodied dog lead. 'Wasn't the best place to keep it, I know.' I winced.

Sigerson took it from me, green eyes sparking with interest. 'Where exactly did you find this?'

I pointed to the direction we were heading. 'Just near the village gates, flung off into the grass, as near as I can figure.'

Sigerson had stopped his walking and was studying it closely. He chuckled to himself after a moment, and it grew into a delighted laugh. 'Oh, this is simply too good.'

I didn't understand. 'What?'

'This case, John! It's been a pleasure, a real pleasure.'

I gaped. 'You mean you've already figured it out?'

Sigerson began to walk again, if I'm not mistaken, with a new spring in his step. I jogged to keep up with his long stride.

He was making his way towards the village with purpose.

It was still early and not very crowded. A few tourists walked past us, casting curious glances to the tall form of Sigerson and his stark blond hair. His eyes scanned the street.

'Dubois's dog wasn't killed by Harrison's car,' he said suddenly.

I gave a slight start. 'I don't understand. I thought we were investigating the murder of Harrison.'

Sigerson gave me a look. 'We are. The two are connected.'

I nodded. 'Yes. I got that.'

Sigerson slid his rucksack off of his shoulder and, after unzipping it, pulled out a newspaper dated from last week. He flipped several pages back and almost shoved it in my face.

'It wasn't Dubois's animal.'

'Well, that's not what the papers are saying.' I can't read French, but the picture was enough of a clue for me. 'Must have been a slow news day.'

'Can never trust what newspapers say.' Sigerson practically snarled between clenched teeth.

'Yes,' I nodded. A pang of bitterness ripped through me, a reminder of headlines. The obscene obsession over my friend's suicide. 'I know.'

Sigerson glanced down at me with something almost akin to pity. 'Yes...' he said slowly. 'I suppose you do...' His green eyes shone behind his rounded glasses, a look so familiar I had to turn away and remind myself that this was not Sherlock Holmes. Holmes was dead and gone.

I frowned. 'I thought that maybe Jenny Dubois had let the dog out on purpose since she hated it so much. It getting hit by the car was just a bonus.'

Sigerson shook his head, sending his straight hair swinging. 'No.' Then he gave me a quirky smile. 'Close, however.'

I waited. He didn't expound. 'I think you have to explain.'

Sigerson was suddenly talking very fast. 'Do you have any idea how much a dog like little Holly can cost, John?'

'N—no, not really…hundred pounds?'

'A prize Cavalier King Charles spaniel, one may be expected to pay almost nine thousand pounds. And that is forgetting one as famous as Dubois's cur. It is one of the most expensive breeds.'

I shuffled my feet. 'Sounds like a costly hobby.'

'Indeed!' Sigerson beamed. 'And for someone wanting some extra money, oh, John, imagine the possibilities.'

'Someone stole Holly.'

'Exactly.' Sigerson's eyes gleamed.

It clicked. 'Jenny Dubois.'

Sigerson nodded. 'Yes. If you had looked closer outside of Dubois's house, you would have noticed two sets of dog tracks, not just one. One set was slightly smaller than the other.'

'Different dogs!'

He nodded.

I thought it over. 'She was friends with Harrison…he came by, probably late at night to Dubois's house with the decoy dog and exchanged with Jenny.'

'Yes, go on.'

'The next day,' I remembered the bloody dog lead. 'They staged the accident that killed the dog. The fake dog.'

'Wonderful, John!'

I started to pace, working through what I'd gathered so far. 'Then…that night, Jenny meets Mark and the real Holly out in the field. They probably have some agreement to split the money once she sells the dog…but she doesn't agree. So she takes her uncle's gun. They must have argued, and she shot him, then stowed the dog somewhere and is waiting for her chance to sell it and move out of here.'

Sigerson made a face.

I raised my eyes to him. 'I've got something wrong? No, it has to be Jenny. It was her uncle's gun—'

'You're missing one thing that is vital to this.'

'What?'

'Harrison's so-called friends.' Sigerson nodded his chin towards the pub where Jenny worked. 'Harrison was a braggart and a gambler.'

'Ahh, yes, I met them. At the pub the other night.'

'I know.'

I gave him a sharp look but he was already talking again. 'Jenny wasn't working that night, of course she wasn't, she had to be at Dubois's house to receive the fake dog. But afterwards, ah, Harrison went to the pub. And as the drinks started so did his mouth.'

I groaned. 'He told them about the dog.'

Sigerson nodded. 'Jenny Dubois did leave with her uncle's gun that next night. Harrison was threatening to blackmail her unless she gave him more of her share of the money from the dog. Probably. But she never met him. She met someone else.'

I closed my eyes. I got it now. 'The pub group. God.'

'They were more than likely drunk. It was late. They assumed she had the dog with her, after harassing her she more than likely pulled her gun, which they got from her. And with that, information. It was they, and not Jenny, who met and quarrelled with Mark Harrison in the field that night. They who shot him and stole the dog.'

'But the gun—'

'Jenny was right behind them. You saw her footprints at the scene of the murder, if you remember. She picked up the gun, cleaned it off as best she could,' Sigerson clapped his hands together, 'and put it back where it belonged, hoping to clear herself up from the whole mess.'

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. 'That is…absolutely…insane.'

Sigerson chuckled darkly.

I scowled. 'So, why are we here, then?'

'Hmm? Oh, waiting for Lestrade and Inspector Beaumont.'

As if on cue, or perhaps Sigerson's accurate estimation of time, both men stepped out of the inn to our right. Upon seeing Sigerson, Lestrade and the other man turned our direction.

'The man you are looking for is named Claude Merle. His three accomplices go by the names of Basset, Deville and Laroque. They'll all be together; it won't be that hard to track them down.'

'Uh,' Lestrade frowned. 'Do you have any evidence to back this up?'

Sigerson rolled his eyes. 'Their shoes. Surely your men took casts of the prints at the scene of the crime?'

Beaumont nodded. _'Oui.'_

Sigerson flashed them a smile. 'Then my work here is done. Gentlemen!' He extended his hand, gave Lestrade's a firm shake, Beaumont a quick nod, and then was spinning back round on the pavement, headed back out of the village. I gave both men a smile and then hurried after him.

For the last few hours of the day, I kept near Sigerson. He oddly enough, wanted to spend time with me. After the last few police dealings of the day, and sending Lestrade off on a good note, we both found ourselves in the pub, a plate of finished French food in front of me, nothing on his side.

'So what will you do now?' I asked timidly after a moment.

Sigerson had been sitting back, lost in his own thoughts, in a way I found so familiar it was slightly disturbing. 'Can't stay here. I was thinking perhaps Tibet.'

I felt my heart sink, and was surprised by that. 'Tibet? That's rather far.'

His eyes settled on me. 'Yes. It is…' His lips pulled down.

I directed my eyes to my pint of beer to my right. 'There's always, oh, I don't know, London. A city like that could certainly use your skill.'

Sigerson's head tilted slightly to one side. 'London? Oh, I couldn't go there.' He grinned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. 'I think with you they won't need me.'

I huffed and took a pull at my drink. 'Funny.'

His eyes didn't leave mine. 'Don't think so little of yourself, John. You're cleverer than you think. You've just got to open your eyes.'

I was still frowning in puzzlement over his words when he surprised me by standing rather suddenly.

'Well, I suppose I had better turn in for the night.'

I started to rise. He held up a hand.

'Don't rush yourself.' He gave me a smile. 'Goodbye, Dr Watson.'

I watched him turn and leave before I could even think of a reply. I watched his tall blond head tower above the others as he stepped out of the warm glow of the pub and into the night.

My shoulders slumped and I sat back down in a heap.

Goodbye?

I awoke the next morning to give my account to Dubois. 'I don't know if you've spoken to Sigerson yet—'

'Actually,' Dubois interrupted me. 'I just have! He was in a hurry, but he told me how brilliant you were, how you solved the case before he did and I must admit, I am a little surprised!' He chuckled. 'But I cannot be more relieved. I am looking forward to hearing what the police here say. Terrible about poor Holly but perhaps they'll find her.' He dug in his jacket and passed a cheque across to me. I numbly took it. 'Thank you, Dr Watson, I am really very—'

It suddenly hit me. 'I'm sorry, did you say Sigerson told you _I _solved it?'

'Yes…' He was frowning now.

'And he's just left?' My heart gave a little jerk.

Dubois nodded. 'Yes, he said he was very busy—'

I spun round, almost slipping on the rug. 'I'm terribly sorry, I'll be right back!'

I tore out of the house and across the garden, heart thudding him my chest. I couldn't be too late, I just couldn't! Then I saw his tall form, slightly hunched beneath the weight of his rucksack, blond hair swinging from under his bobcap. I would have sighed in relief if I wasn't running so hard.

I went racing down the drive. 'Sigerson! Wait!'

The man stopped and turned. His face lifted in surprise, and what I almost thought was relief.

'Is everything alright, Dr Watson?' he asked, frowning at me.

I leant over, trying to catch my breath. 'Yes,' I gasped, 'I just…talked to Dubois. He said,' another breath, 'that you told him I solved the case.'

Sigerson shrugged his shoulders. 'You nearly did. And you would have gotten there in the end if I hadn't come along. I just gave you a bit of a push.'

'But—' I dug into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled cheque. 'This belongs—'

Sigerson held up his hand. 'No. You need it more than I do. You deserve it more.' He smiled.

Awkwardly, I lowered my arm. 'Right…well…' I looked him in the eyes. 'Thank you, Sigerson. Thank you for everything. Giving me a chance to do this again…I think it was good for me.'

His expression softened. 'Yes, Dr Watson, I do think I have to agree. Having you as a colleague was…quite an honour.'

He held out his hand and I shook it firmly.

I broke into a smile. 'Well, if you ever find yourself in London…'

He nodded his head. 'You will be the first person I seek out.'

He was still staring at me. I cleared my throat. 'Right, well. Save travels. Good luck in Tibet.'

He bowed his head. 'And with you.'

I turned away and started back up the drive. But from behind me, I could have sworn I heard his voice, much lower than I remembered it. 'Goodbye, John.'

I turned round, but he was striding away from me quickly, glancing down at his phone. I watched him go, reminding myself that I would not ever forget about Benedict Sigerson, or what he had done for my life.

'So, that's it, then,' I finished my tale lamely. 'My first case. Alone.' I cleared my throat. 'Well, I guess not completely alone.' I thought back to the tall Norwegian and smiled to myself. 'You would have liked him, I think, Sherlock. Liked him or hated him. He…reminded me of you.'

He didn't answer. He never did when I'm at his grave. So I just stood there in the cold and silence for a long time with my arms at my sides, staring down at the now grown grass that covers the place where he slept.

I rubbed my eyes.

My phone buzzed with a text. I sighed and pulled it out. From Mary. I read it quickly, then looked back up to the silent headstone and the name engraved on it.

'It's Mary. I told you about her last time I was here. Got a date tonight.' I bobbed up and down on my heels for a moment. I could only imagine the snide comment I would have received upon this statement. It was all I could do. Imagine.

I took a deep breath. 'Right. Well, I'll see you next month, then.'

The same heaviness that always filled my heart at the end of our meetings hit. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to adjust to it.

I opened my eyes again and flashed him a smile. 'Who knows, maybe next month I'll look completely different! I've thought about growing a moustache.' I smirked for a moment, the inevitable groan from him echoing in my mind.

I strode forward and touched the top of the headstone. Like I always did. It had kind of become a ritual for me. And then I turned and I trudged back through the field of graves, back to civilization, back to my new life.

But not completely alone.

I was never completely alone.

Because Sherlock Holmes would never leave my mind.

_Author's Note: I didn't make up the character, Sigerson, as most Sherlockians will know. According to the story 'The Empty House' Sherlock Holmes mentions masquerading as a Norwegian detective named Sigerson, whom Watson read about closely. The idea of the two of them meeting, without Watson knowing, was just too good an opportunity for me to pass up. _


End file.
